


go ahead and put your red lipstick on

by dirtylittlewar



Category: GTA V, Grand Theft Auto V
Genre: M/M, North Yankton, TW: Mentions of abuse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-10
Updated: 2016-01-10
Packaged: 2018-05-13 02:38:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 816
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5691493
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dirtylittlewar/pseuds/dirtylittlewar
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Trevor hasn’t worn a dress since he was twelve. </p>
<p>Not since step dad number four had caught him lovingly applying red lipstick and lounging in one of his mother’s night gowns. The pretty teal green fabric had been ruined by the end of the evening. The memory of that pretty baby doll dress soaked in his own blood.</p>
            </blockquote>





	go ahead and put your red lipstick on

**Author's Note:**

> I’ve been wanting to write this since I had first gotten into gta v a few years back but I just never knew how. It wasn’t until recently that it finally decided to happen on its own. I'm hoping it'll be the first of many running works for the future.

“Ms. Sherburt Princess says you can’t drink that because its the king’s.” A stuffed hand slaps Trevor lightly on the wrist before pushing the tea pot away.

“Well, Ms. Sherburt Princess can go fu–”

“T, can you watch the kids real quick? I need to buy diapers before Amanda kills me for forgetting again.”

Michael is gone before he can get a fucking word in edge wise, slamming the trailer door, and leaving Trevor to cramp slowly in a tiny plastic chair. It’s a given at this point to be stuck with babysitting duty but that still doesn’t mean the asshole has the right to charge off without so much as a goodbye.

Michael’s real lucky his services come at such a cheap price - meager compensation that comes more or less in the form of stale old beers from the fridge, and a handful of fish crackers gifted lovingly from the queen herself.

Said queen is giving him a look as Trevor steals one of their stuffed guest’s food.

“Uncle T, let’s play dress up!”

Trevor hasn’t worn a dress since he was twelve. Not since step dad number four had caught him lovingly applying red lipstick and lounging in one of his mother’s night gowns. The pretty teal green fabric had been ruined by the end of the evening. The memory of that pretty baby doll dress soaked in his own blood.

He creases his fingers carefully over the present and can’t help but be reminded of that precious dress while Tracey excitedly places sparkling bows into his hair. There is no judgment here. It’s nothing but pure and honest child like acceptance as Tracey places the finishing touches.

“You’re a princess now so you have to have a beautiful name.”

There’s a beat of silence before he looks into the expectant face of his queen. “Trisha. It’s Trisha.”

The third, fourth, and even fifth, time Trevor wears a dress is almost always in the safety of Michael’s cramped little trailer. It’s always under the pretense of playing dress up and never under the judgmental supervision of society as a whole. If he even gave a fuck what society had to think in the first place but if Michael found out it’d be a different thing entirely.

Trevor doesn’t want Michael to misjudge him, or even worse cut all ties because he’s some sick fucker that likes to wear a dress.

So he goes on playing Princess Trisha, never Trevor, always beautiful Princess Trisha. Until Michael unexpectedly walks in on Trevor applying lipstick at Amanda’s tiny excuse of a vanity. He must have come in while Trevor was in the bathroom looking through Amanda’s make-up bag. Too occupied with that cherry red lipstick that was so reminiscent of his mother’s.

Trevor’s hand shakes, barely noticeable from where Michael is still standing with his hand on the bedroom door, but those tiny tremors feel like fucking tectonic plates shifting inside of his body.

They don’t say a thing.

They continue to not say a single damn thing for nearly four weeks.

Trevor is angry and with that rage comes absolute (self)destruction for anyone unfortunate enough to cross his path.

It’s not until they’re sharing a crappy motel room in an equally shitty town that they decide to speak. Michael is the first to break under the uncomfortable weight of Trevor’s absolute silence. “Trace has been asking about you, you know?”

Trevor sniffs, resolute in his conviction to stay absolutely quiet.

“She…she misses you.” It’s a pathetic attempt to mirror the, ‘I miss you’ he so desperately wants to say.

Michael rubs his face when he gets no obvious reaction out of Trevor before finally settling on rummaging through his pockets. It takes a few minutes before he quickly remembers which one contains the tiny trinket he’d been looking for. Michael settles in front of Trevor, who cautiously considers the curled fist being placed face down between them.

“She said maybe the princess was in trouble, maybe Princess Trisha will come back if the queen sends out her prince.”

That gets him a laugh but at this point Michael is willing to take anything but the stagnant silence. It’s genuine at least.

“You’re saying you’re that prince?”

“Anything less and I’d have been offended by the title,” Michael carefully takes Trevor’s hand before dropping the item into his opened palm. It’s almost warmed to the touch from having been held for so long. “Plus Mr. Frog already got the title of king.”

Trevor hesitates to look downwards for a few moments. The shape is familiar, solid, and comforting as it sits in his still curled palm. Michael sighs out in relief when Trevor finally does manage to look at the shiny gold casing of lipstick. “I always hated Mr. Frog, too much of a fascist dictatorship under his rule.”

Michael laughs. “You and me both.”


End file.
